“Okay then, friend. What do we do now? What’s next?”
He laces his fingers together, elbows on knees, and studies me for a moment, beaming now that the first barrier of awkwardness is breached and we’re back in our secret world of unreality.
“I’d love to kiss you.” As if anticipating the taste of me, he flicks his pink tongue across his lips.
I shudder. Down below, my sex clenches as if he’d flicked at me.
“Er, okay then.” I’m so excited, so hungry for him that I can’t think of anything better or more sophisticated or sexy to say. I can’t believe how he befuddles me like this when I barely know him.
He surges forward across the bed and half-kneels in front of me, then with a warm hand cradling my cheek, he draws me to him. His mouth is sweet and mobile, alive with promise and potential. I sink back against the pillows and he follows me in, swooping over me, gentle and warm and generous.
It’s all so easy with him somehow. I don’t worry the way I did with Steve, about my age or my attractiveness or my health issues. In my gut and my heart, I know that Patrick doesn’t judge me the way others do. As he explores my mouth with his twisting, dabbing tongue I wind my arms around him. My robe falls open, but I don’t give a damn. I even smile.
“Why are you smiling?” he asks, pausing to plant tiny kisses at the margins of my grin.
“Oh, just thinking what a silly old fool I am,” I answer lightly, kissing the corners of his mouth and the sweet little indentations of his smile dimples. “For succumbing so easily to the blandishments of a handsome young man.”
He stares at me, still smiling. His expression is mild yet quizzical. “But you’re not old, Miranda. And I’m not young.”
“But…” I start, and then look at him. Really look at him.
The light must be different today, because as I study his handsome features, I realize he’s absolutely right. I don’t know why I didn’t see them before, but he has a few slight lines on his forehead. I must have been dazzled by him, I guess, because they’re definitely there, along with laughter crinkles at the corner of his bright blue eyes. He has a sort of nicely seasoned look that wasn’t as apparent yesterday out in the garden. But it doesn’t make him any less fabulous. In fact, he’s even more gorgeous for looking like a grownup man who’s seen some life, rather than a boy.
“Well, you’re right about yourself. Now I look at you, I see you’re not actually a slip of a lad at all, even if you are still God’s gift of hot male pulchritude.” He has the grace to smirk and blush a little. He waggles his sandy brows, clearly not immune to flattery. “But… well, I have seen better days, and I’m a bit creaky and past my sell by date.”
“Nonsense. That’s total BS.”
The way he blurts it out makes us both laugh, and as we kiss again, desire grinds low and hard and urgent in my belly.
“Relax,” he murmurs again, his mantra as he starts kissing on down my throat and my chest in the general direction of due south, “I’ll make you forget your twinges, woman,” he growls, almost aggressive as he zeroes in on my left breast, drawing the nipple into his mouth and swirling his nimble tongue around it.
My hips lurch as if connected to my breast by a singing chord of sensation. He sucks and I start hitching about uncontrollably. I grab at his golden head, and at the same time grind my crotch against his clothed, athletic body. It’s like he’s turned on an engine inside me, a new power source of sex and hunger.
He kisses my breasts, playing around, dipping from one to the other, licking and sucking and teasing. My pussy is furious with desire, and suddenly friction against him just isn’t enough. I want more. And whether from him, or from myself, I just don’t care. Still holding onto him with one hand, I wiggle the other between us, searching for the roaring heart of the matter. He feels me rummaging around and he laughs against my skin.
Then he looks up and swipes that wicked, clever tongue around his mouth again.
I nearly lose it. My body jerks. I’ve always doubted that any woman, much less one like me, can come without some attention lavished on her clitoris, but right at this moment, I’m as near as I’ll ever be to coming spontaneously. Especially when Patrick winks and murmurs, “Your wish is my command.”
Jesus, has he read my mind? Or is it just simple but acute intuition, a man following the natural course of events. Whichever, I want him to go down on me, and he knows that. With no further ado, he starts kissing me again. First a few random pecks in the area of my rib cage, then a more determined track down the median line of my belly. When he probes my navel with the point of his tongue, I let out a squeak and tumble even closer to that orgasm.
I have both hands buried in his hair now, and it’s an effort not to pull it, especially when he scoots farther down the bed and slides his hands beneath my bottom to lift me up. I feel so voluptuous and uninhibited. I’m vulnerable to him, yet glorious too. He nuzzles me, rubbing his nose and his mouth against the delta of soft hair covering my pussy. Not diving in yet, he just plays around, bussing and teasing in a way that’s as affectionate as it is sexy and raw.
Still holding me up with one flat hand beneath my bottom, he shakes free a moment, then reaches forward, grabs a pillow and stuffs it beneath me for better access.
I feel ruder and more like a sex goddess than ever.
Then he goes in, thumbs teasing apart the mat of my pubic hair, and then parting my sex lips to expose my clit. As he blows lightly on it, I grab for his hair again.
I want your mouth, you gorgeous angel of sexy naughtiness. You beautiful man from out of nowhere, give me head.
Without a moment’s pause, he extends his tongue and gives me long, insolent savoring lick.
I howl, bucking up from my supporting pillow and crushing myself against his mouth with all the strength in my body and some I never even had before.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants against my flesh, and then with a noise like a growl he gives me a merciless, stringent tongue-lashing.
I come immediately, high and hard, but that doesn’t stop him from assailing me, pressing me to greater heights. Somehow, he manages to hook his arm and hand around my thigh in devilish cleverness so he can create tension against the flat of my belly and increase the intensity of the contact.
Orgasms explode in my loins and in my head like a syncopated chain of beautiful fireworks. I shout and moan and curse and babble. I don’t care if the entire avenue hears me, or even if someone calls the police. My only reality is the sublime pleasure of Patrick’s mouth. His tongue is warm and flexible, plaguing me in a dozen different strokes and speeds, flattening to press, curling to a point to dab and jab and tantalize. As he slides it down to the entrance to my vagina, his clever thumb slips onto my clitoris to take its place.
And all the time his bright hair gleams in the low light, an older gold somehow this afternoon, more natural and weathered than the dazzling gilt of yesterday.
Even as I lurch joyfully into another orgasm, the mysterious changes sink into my subconscious, ready to be taken out in cooler moments and pondered upon.